flow of time

between now and then flowing adored

are moments of dusk encroaching hovered

promise of dawn's loom celebrated a bride's dream penetrated

dancing swaying incarnating the sway of creation

At least in so far as I can see, and experience, in the foreground of my life, the horizon is the edge and end of everything. Tho I see differently in the solitary night silence delight. Wherein there is an audience of one. Permissible what before seemed impressionable, not license, but conversation. No answers per se but responsibility and participation; an opening to beyond the beyond and more: new territories and vistas. Bliss. Joy.

Confessionally I will admit idolatry, closeted with quotes, the authors of words and creation combined dancing; accomplished finished and fine.

Whole or Holy?!

Then finding myself fragmented, shards upon the ground of my perceptions. Seeds scattered. Growing new things thoughts or something else. New.

The authors of my disaster and destruction are as venal as I (laughter) variegated various variety motley crew rowing towards the unknown/unknowable.

No coxswain am I, but one of the oarsmen thrashing stars; groaning lubricious and fecund. Trembling desirous. Galley slaves weeping blood, lives filling the bilge, laughing, shred by the grape shot of love. Laboring towards the origins of what was immeasurable before there was time.

Me thinks the author of us is not silent but still speaking the menu of life. Suggesting not bananas versus cumquats but perchance a bit more salt or less. Or would you believe, fasting sometimes? No more six o'clock news for you little boy, keep rowing the night away. Yes. I am more like Ruth than ruthless; whether thou go go I; a flea on a dog comes to mind but I am less than the flea. My sustenance excretes kindness now boundless. Can I be so bold, or a fool follish, to say: 'what I give is endlessly replaced by more'?

Could it be that books are not suppositories, nor palliatives, but doubt, sugar coated? And libraries, temples or churches, if you will allow, inhaled, consuming me.

I, simply, must stop ogling women librarians as temple whores or oracles. Flirting. Wandering the stacks randomly stroking the spines finding what has recently blow me away. The gods upon my pantheon have feet of clay. Tears of mirth. (“Writers Gone Wild” by Bill Peschel)

Slurry, desiccated, returned to dust, twirling above and about, a desert dust devil, once a water spout. Ah! Sweet Jesus diving with a bungee cord I'm in love with words.

Dear Coxswain, never allow me to lose my awe of thee.

SIDEBAR:PERCEPTION

I have be found by what I sought.

We humans tend to see everything initially through a filter. Our favored point of view: thinking, sensing, feeling or intuition. Why should I fear what I will never ever take for granted?

The thought invoked another: the sensing functions (listed) cover a primary: instinct. Fight or flight, friend or foe; threat assessment. My reverent awe is another way of saying fear.

The flea circus I am, my test object/subject, is linging up in chorus saying YES!

And it is wisdom to fear God, in Whom I, unlike the dollar currency, do trust.

Always, in all things, nothing for naught.

“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.”

- Henri Bergson

130416 02:25 MDT flow of time

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

credit capture: Mike Brodie A PERIOD OF JUVENILE PROSPERITY